The Story of a Long-Distance Marriage

by Siddhesh Inamdar

  Long silence. Neither of us talks. I close my eyes, the phone over my ears. I don’t know what to say. I want to disconnect the call and go to sleep and never wake up. I grit my teeth silently. I had done everything right. I thought I had. How was I to know that it would all eventually come to this?

  ‘When did we become so resentful of each other, Ira?’ I say, my eyes still shut. ‘When did we become so bitter?’

  ‘You need to answer that question. Because you made me this way.’

  I summon the last reserves of calm and patience and fortitude. ‘We’ll be fine when you come back. It won’t be like this again.’

  ‘You only say these things. You only make promises you never keep. So many things you had promised when you proposed to me. “I will fill your life with happiness or die trying.” That is what you had said to me. And look now what you’ve done.’

  ‘It will be different this time.’

  ‘I’m not even sure there’s going to be a “this time”.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That I’m not even sure I want to come back. I think I want to cancel my return ticket and just stay here without a break for the second year.’

  ‘You will do no such thing, Ira,’ I say, my temper rising. I know she is perfectly capable of it.

  ‘What is the point, Rohan? You will neglect me all over again for the four months I’ll be there.’

  ‘How dare you make me feel like this?’ I explode. ‘How dare you make me feel like I ill-treated you when all I did was sacrifice an entire life to be with you? We wouldn’t even be married today if I hadn’t moved to Delhi. Do you remember how you neglected me when I had just shifted? You wanted to be left alone to focus on your course. Day after day I hoped we would spend some time with each other and all you ever told me was you wanted to be left alone. But it’s perfectly fine when you treat me like that. And if I do the same? Oh no! That is a big crime.’

  Silence again. I can hear Ira cry softly. But I feel no remorse. I only want to cause her more pain.

  ‘Ira?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there another guy?’

  There is deathly silence on the other end for a few seconds and then she bursts.

  ‘I’ve been nothing but loyal to you, Rohan, all these years. And you have the cheek to ask me if there’s another guy.’

  Silence. She weeps. I know I shouldn’t have said what I said but I can’t apologize now. I am tired of being made to feel like everything is my fault.

  ‘Are you unhappy, Ira?’ I say.

  ‘What—do—you—think? I have come this far just to be away from you and you’re asking me if I’m unhappy.’

  ‘No, listen to me. I know you are unhappy. Which is what I’m saying. Both of us hold so many things against each other and who’s to say who’s right? Maybe we are both right where we stand. And that means we are not right for each other. That’s what I think.’

  ‘Do you now?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about it for some time. About our relationship …’

  ‘I’m glad you are.’

  ‘And I wonder if we are meant for each other.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘If we can’t make it work even after having known each other for ten years, maybe we’ve got something fundamental completely wrong.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a possibility. Certainly.’

  ‘We’ve both made a lot of sacrifices …’

  ‘That we have.’

  ‘… and in spite of those, it’s not working … the opposite has happened. We both hate each other almost.’

  ‘Umm.’

  ‘So I was thinking …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I know it will be difficult but it might be good for the both of us if …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If maybe we got a div—’

  Ira hangs up. I stare at the Diagon Alley photo of her smiling on the brightly lit screen of my phone. After a minute, my face cracks and I start crying. I flip on the bed, crouch on my knees, my head bent into my chest, and I bawl. I half scream, half weep until Gaurav shakes me with force. I had forgotten he was in the room. I had forgotten I’m not home. Behind my closed eyes, my mind focused entirely on Ira, I had lost track of everything around me. There’s someone knocking on the door, someone wondering what the commotion is about, but Gaurav ignores him. He only rubs my back, trying to calm me down—trying but failing.

  10

  Yusuf

  I hit rock bottom over the next few weeks. There is massive, massive rage inside me which makes me do things I had thought I had outgrown with teenage. I deactivate my Facebook account and delete WhatsApp from my phone. I do not want to know or even be tempted to find out what’s happening in Ira’s life. She makes it easy by not trying to get in touch either. Somehow our separation in this virtual sphere feels more real than the one in the physical world.

  I make no effort to hide the rage from the people around me. I tell Gaurav I do not want him coming over. Even by Delhi standards, I get needlessly aggressive with people ahead of me in queues in department stores. I meet Alisha over tea every day before work as per our routine but don’t bother making small talk and stay silent throughout. She first realizes something is off when she tries to tell me she has taken up the ToI offer, and will be moving to Jaipur in a couple of months, and I have no reaction. I knew this was coming and had expected to feel bad about losing the daily company of someone I had grown to be fond of. I’m surprised that I’m not. I’m just glad that, on her last day in office, I’ll be away in Kolkata for Tanuj’s wedding.

  She initially puts my grumpiness down to a bad day at work and lets me be. But, when the pattern continues, she tries to draw me out with pointed questions, to which I only grunt in response. She perhaps wonders if she is in some way responsible for my mood and I feel bad about doing this to her. One day she asks if we should stop meeting over tea. I say, ‘No,’ without attempting to explain my behaviour. But I try to be more congenial from then on.

  Tanuj is less indulgent. After the first time I refuse when he asks me if I want to step out of office for a walk, he leaves me alone. I reason that he has wedding shopping, invitations and a thousand other things to worry about now. I am relieved that I don’t have to justify myself, but I am also annoyed by how easily he gives up.

  Typos never escape Maran’s ever-observant hawk eyes, so the dramatic change in my approach to work has no chance. Once again he calls me into his room to ask what’s going on, why the stories I am editing have questions waiting to be answered and language begging to be polished. I assure him I’ll be more careful, but my heart isn’t in it.

  At least on workdays the only threat I pose is to news reports nobody will remember for more than a day. On the days I’m off, I am positively dangerous to Momo. I let his meal times pass and slap him when he nuzzles my hand. I feel bad immediately and put food in his bowl, but then he refuses to eat, whimpers and cowers under the bed when I go to stroke him. The sight of him breaks my heart and I tell myself that if I’m so ruthless to a helpless creature who is entirely dependent on me, there must be substance to Ira’s allegations. From blaming her, I go to the other extreme and lose all faith in myself.

  Sitting idle at home all day long, I select Ira’s number on the phone to dial it but then think better of it. I decide to see a counsellor, only to realize they don’t come cheap. All the ones I look up charge upwards of a grand per session. There’s no way I can afford them. Then one day while editing a story about the rising number of suicides in the city, I chance upon a mention of the Sanjivini Society for Mental Health, which has a free counselling centre in Jangpura. I call and fix an appointment. But when the time comes, I get cold feet and freak out about talking about my problems with a total stranger, who, I imagine, will listen to my rant with detachment, all the while thinking, ‘If I had a rupee for every time a man fought with his wife …’ I walk out of the reception without anyone knowing.

>   After giving up on the idea of seeking help, I decide to seek a lawyer. I imagine meeting Ira at the airport, getting her signature on the papers and both of us going our separate ways. But I find it harder to do this—to take this final, definitive step to end the past ten years of my life—than to make a fool of myself before a qualified doctor. So I wallow in self-pity day after day, refusing to buy vegetables, refusing to eat whatever Shobha throws together and refusing to get out of bed till I have to leave for office.

  And then one afternoon, in the middle of getting ready for work, I drop on my bed and decide to lie there spreadeagled till some help arrives—and that’s when the doorbell rings.

  *

  ‘Yusuf?’

  ‘Surprise! Surprise!’ the guy at the door chirps and engulfs me in a bear hug before I know what’s going on. He holds me by the shoulders at arm’s length and says, ‘Oh thank god I caught you in time. They just wouldn’t attach the aerobridge to the damn plane for half an hour after it landed and I kept thinking I’ll have to sit on the stairs till you got back from work.’ He then turns me around and walks me in.

  ‘Who … what—what are you doing here?’ I jabber.

  ‘Okay, brace yourself. I might just be moving back to Delhi! Have got an interview later today.’

  ‘What? Really?’ I say suspiciously.

  ‘Hey! I expected a better reaction! You don’t think I’m good enough to get a job offer or what?’

  ‘No, no, of course not.’ I’m still a little lost for words. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’

  ‘And miss the chance to see the look on your face? Where’s the mirror? Come, you’ve got to see this.’ He drags me to the mirror in the bathroom. ‘You look so upset—like you’re in bed with the hottest porn star ever but can’t get things going!’

  ‘Ha, ha, very funny.’

  ‘No, seriously. You don’t look too pumped about seeing me. Are you not pumped about seeing me, Rohan? Because that’s a bother.’

  ‘Of course I’m thrilled.’

  ‘And what’s with the beard and the red eyes?’

  Out of nowhere, the lines from The Catcher in the Rye come to me, and I give Yusuf a long stare. He had once told me that they are his favourite lines in all of literature—that he likes to think of himself as the catcher in the rye. And I find myself reciting the lines in my head. It goes something like: ‘I keep picturing all these little kids playing in this field of rye and all. And nobody’s around—except me. What I have to do is catch everybody if they start to go over the cliff. That’s all I’d do all day. I’d just be the catcher in the rye and all. I know it’s crazy, but that’s the only thing I’d really like to be.’

  Aloud, I shrug and say, playing on these lines and what Yusuf had said as he held me by the shoulders after the bear hug at the door, ‘You just caught me at a bad time. Thank god.’

  *

  The next day I throw an impromptu party in Yusuf’s honour. It’s the only day we have because he is to go back to Bangalore tomorrow. But since it’s a Saturday, most of our common friends from journalism school are able to come for lunch. I also call Tanuj. He doesn’t know anybody in the gathering other than me, but I want him to meet Yusuf.

  Everybody loves Yusuf. Even though it’s short notice, they come from far and wide to meet him. As usual, he is the life of the party. He regales them with stories—how he once started a petition for free Oreos in office, how he and his boss spend hours trolling each other on Facebook. Tanuj later tells me Yusuf exuded such warmth and took such genuine interest in their conversation that he ended up feeling he had known him for years. I had often wondered how Yusuf has this effect on people he meets for the first time. I guess that was it—he’s genuine.

  I take the day off, and in the evening we decide to go to Old Delhi for dinner. Although it’s Saturday, there’s considerable traffic on the way. As darkness falls, the traffic thickens, and we get stuck between two buses, an XUV and a Polo blaring Yo Yo Honey Singh near Pragati Maidan. After two days of respite, I once again start feeling blue thinking Yusuf will be gone soon.

  ‘Tell me,’ I say.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘You made up that job interview, right?’

  ‘Wow, you figured. How?’

  ‘I remember how much Mira used to hate Delhi. So I don’t think you’d be considering a job here unless you guys are breaking up—which I don’t think is the case.’

  I’m looking at the road ahead but I can tell he is smiling at me. ‘I always maintained you are the smartest man in the world, Rohan.’ It’s an old compliment and hardly sits well on me, but I am flattered.

  It’s start-stop traffic. We are stuck again before I can even move into second gear. ‘So where did you go last evening—when I went to work?’

  ‘To see an aunt who stays in Mayur Vihar. She isn’t keeping too well. I wanted to meet her.’

  ‘She was the reason you came to Delhi?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Then?’

  ‘Gaurav called me last week to tell me you had a meltdown.’ I did not see that coming and can feel my face go red. ‘He didn’t tell me what it was about. He asked me to speak to you. At first I thought you and Ira must have had one of your wild fights. But then I noticed you had gone off WhatsApp and Facebook too. That really got me worried.’

  ‘Hah.’ It’s taken us twenty minutes just to get to the ITO junction. ‘You call me smart and make me sound shallow at the same time.’ Yusuf smiles.

  There is silence for two minutes and I start to wonder why he isn’t probing. ‘You really spent all that money and came to Delhi because Gaurav told you I had a meltdown?’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you once that if we were fighting a war, like the First World War or the Second Peloponnesian War, and I had to leave you alone on the battlefield, I would come back for you eventually as the enemy advanced? Just staying true to my word.’

  ‘Okay, I’m touched. But why haven’t you asked me so far what’s wrong?’

  ‘Hey! I spent all that money and came to Delhi. I came back to the battlefield! Now it’s up to you. I know you’ll tell me. You are allowed as much time as you need.’

  I don’t say anything for two minutes. The traffic clears up after we have turned right and then taken a left on to the Ring Road. ‘Ira and I did have one of our wild fights.’

  ‘Okay,’ he says. ‘I don’t think you need to worry too much. Haven’t you guys been fighting for ten years? Didn’t you go through a rough patch when you had just moved to Delhi? Didn’t you guys break up once when you were dating? But you got back together, right? You always do. That’s what makes you guys special. Together you’re my favourite married couple!’

  ‘But it’s different this time.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Ira told me she went to New York because of me. Because she didn’t want to be with me any more. You were my best man, Yusuf. You remember, on the day of the reception, Ira had gone to her place to dress up and come directly to the venue from there? I was restless the whole day and couldn’t bear to be away from her. And finally when I saw her at the venue, I was so relieved. That feeling told me I was in love. And now look at us. We’ve gone seven months without seeing each other and it’s like it doesn’t affect us. Why aren’t we going to pieces? I don’t understand. For one whole month after we got married, I couldn’t imagine being unhappy again. I was that overwhelmed with the joy of being married to the woman I loved. And now I can’t remember the last time I felt happy. It’s like it’s only our legal commitment that’s keeping us together, not any emotional one. What else do I make of her telling me she left because of me?’

  ‘Look, I know you, and I know Ira too. I know you must have given her plenty of reasons to say so, but I also know that she is capable of saying these big things and taking drastic steps. But most of all I think it’s the distance which is making her say these things. I’m sure once she is back for the summer and you spend some time with each other,
you’ll be fine. On your part, just make sure you are with her—in the moment … It’s so easy for most of us to be with people—you know, physically—but we aren’t with them in the moment.’

  He pauses, looks at me intently and continues, ‘You remember T.S. Eliot’s ‘Waste Land’? There’s a section where two lovers are talking, and one of them says, “Stay with me. Speak to me. Why do you never speak? What are you thinking of? I never know what you are thinking.” To me, these are among the saddest lines ever written—this idea of two lovers sitting next to each other and feeling lonely.’ My mind goes back to something Ira had once said. The road is clear now but I deliberately stay under fifty.

  ‘Since we are talking literarily, I’ll use Rowling,’ I say. ‘Horcruxes. In the books, horcruxes are bad. That’s how Voldemort eludes death for years. But I don’t think horcruxes are always bad. Or that it takes something as grave as murder to create one. We may not be consciously doing it, but we are splitting our souls all the time. There is a part of my soul in Old Delhi, where we are going. It’s where Ira and I had gone when I first came to Delhi to see her. There’s a part of my soul in Sikkim, where I first experienced what it is to fall in love many years ago. Horcruxes, I think, are a way of life. They are a way of loving.’

  I take a long pause. ‘This marriage, and I know I sound silly when I put it like this,’ I say, tearing up a little, ‘is a horcrux. There’s a huge part of my soul in it. But tell me, Yusuf, what happens when that part of the soul comes loose? What happens when the horcrux ceases to be one? Then it’s simply an object without any worth, isn’t it?’

  This is the only way I can say it. It’s the only way I can make sense of what I’m going through and expect Yusuf to get it. He doesn’t respond. We have crossed Rajghat. The road is dark and empty and we are speeding towards our destination. I know there is a left turn here somewhere to get to the Red Fort parking lot, where I can leave the car and walk into Old Delhi.

  ‘Yusuf?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘For the first time I talked about divorce. And I meant it. That’s what was scary. That’s what made it more than one of our usual wild fights. It wasn’t Ira throwing her temper. It was me talking about divorce. What do I do with this part of my soul that’s come loose? What do I do with a dead horcrux? I don’t know if our marriage will survive this year of distance. I don’t know if we’ll ever find all the lost love.’